Tuesday, 8 March 2011

now we know what bodies are made from

There is nothing so dissatisfying as total, nihilistic freedom.

It transpires that carelessly indulging yourself (if getting battered counts as indulging yourself) with no thought to tomorrow just leads to a string of long, sad tomorrows and an unfailing preoccupation with how best to fill the gaps. Apparently time won't stop passing no matter what you tell it to do. The question is, why was reckless abandon so much more fun the first time around? Age seems too pedestrian an answer.

I've met some amazing people out here (and I've long since ceased to be amazed by people easily), but I almost feel as if our time together is cheapened by how much fun we're having.

Perhaps I'm just frustrated because I'm reluctantly coming to the realisation that there is nothing stopping me anymore. Apart from me, of course.